


Won't You Carry Me Away

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Artist Harry, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Writer Louis, and they become very smitten very fast, it's so sappy, just so much fluff and happiness, louis and harry meet in an ikea and are meant to be, of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-27 09:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7611820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Oh, my God,” Louis says, clapping a hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry! I must have dozed off,” Louis insists, apologetic, face hot.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Artsy Boy gapes at him, silent for an excruciating length of time. Louis wants the ground to swallow him whole. "Do you normally take naps in Home and Furnishing Stores?" the boy says finally, slowly, a deep drawl of a voice that sends shivers down Louis’ spine, caressing it like silk. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>"No, don’t be daft. I only take naps in IKEAs," Louis quips. "Comfier beds, aren’t they?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Artsy Boy slightly pokes his tongue out between almost crimson lips, (Louis’ definitely penning a poem about this wondrous pair of lips later) before pressing them together in an amused smile. <i></i></i>
</p><p> <br/>Or: Louis decided to test out a bed in IKEA and ends up falling asleep, startling one very beautiful, whimsical boy named Harry. Of course, romance quickly ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't You Carry Me Away

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii :)
> 
> This is a little one shot I've had in my head for a while. It's just silly happy fluff. I hope you like it! x
> 
> Title taken from 'High Society' by Betty Who.

Louis Tomlinson, heavy-lidded and irritatingly craving nicotine, finds himself wandering through the aisles of IKEA straight from his shift at a well known brand of coffee shop he unfortunately works at, hands still unpleasantly sticky from squeezing bottles of caramel syrup all day, the aroma of coffee beans likely having buried itself in Louis’ windswept hair. He’d meant to come here sometime during next week, but alas shift work is a bitch and so now’s the most convenient time.

(Though he’s going to have a heck of a time getting a damn bed and mattress into his poxy car. He’ll worry about that later.)

Louis checks the time on his phone. It’s almost seven. Good, okay. The store doesn’t close until ten so he’s got a few hours yet.

A couple of hours until he leaves here with nothing, probably.

With his earbuds in and Vampire Weekend distracting Louis from the stale, stark pale walls, amongst a collection of diverse shades of wooden bed frames and other minimal bedroom furniture both stylish and practical, Louis pads around the shiny cream floors in just his crimson and white polka dot socks, a black marble jumper practically swallowing his slight frame.

He’s got a pair of his black Vans dangling in one hand, and the other holding onto his phone, twice the size of it, and comes to an abrupt stop, pausing to closely study a plump, spotlessly white mattress on a pine wooden bed frame as though it may as well hold the secrets to the universe, languid features and sluggish muscles struggling to muster up an expression that doesn’t signal Louis is about to collapse right here in the mattress aisle to a passerby. 

Because buying the right mattress, along with the right bed frame is a very important decision for Louis. He’s got a new flat, new flatmates, a new degree and Louis is excited to start his new life, independent and broke as fuck, probably munching on nothing but cornflakes and nutrition bars, and living off five cups of tea a day.

(Let the good times roll.)

See, buying the wrong mattress will result in many a miserable, uncomfortable, restless night, and is likely to induce insomnia and certain anxious thoughts and melancholy feelings that Louis really doesn’t want to think about, (unless needed for a highly depressing piece of prose) would really rather shove down to the furthest depths of his darkest and deepest innards.

Everything rests on the right mattress and this one simply won’t do in Louis’ humble opinion.

Yes, so it’s firm and sturdy enough, but the springs are still clearly present on the surface and no, Louis can’t have that, and so he moves onto the next one beside it, plonking his shoes down onto the floor by his socked feet, and presses a hand down onto the slightly scratchy duvet covering the mattress.

Despite its texture, it’s enticingly comfortable looking, almost begging Louis to get in and bury himself under the covers, snuggle in and pretend it’s socially acceptable to get into a bed, fully clothed in public inside an IKEA store.

Or perhaps that’s just another hint that he’s overwhelmingly tired from his chaotic, stuffy shift today that he’s actually, seriously, contemplating this idea.

Then his eyes regrettably fall to the price tag.

Well. Moving on then.

Louis wanders around some more, eyes scanning his contemporary surroundings, as he approaches the bedroom set ups, and notices there seems to be very few people around at this time of the evening. Louis shrugs, coming up to stand in front of an incredibly plush, modern set up. The king-size bedspread is bright purple, regal and luxurious, several big pillows in shades of hot pink, mauve and white propped at the head of the clean, white bed frame. The bedroom’s display is dimly lit, with fancy, triangular, abstract lamps that are so tall, Louis has to tilt his head to get a look at them. They're placed on either side of the massive sleeping area’s bedside drawers, scattered artsy frames with artwork in that Louis’ not too keen on, hanging above the bed on the opposite wall. A cream, oval shaped chair sits in the corner, along with the a white wooden wardrobe. Everything of course is for sale, price tags stuck to the items.

Louis pads inside, socks brushing the soft, fluffy plum rug, which matches the duvet’s shade.

He yawns, taking in the arrangement. It just looks so comfy and warm and cosy and Louis is so, so tired. Like, exhausted, you know? So he turns around discreetly, scanning his surroundings—no one’s looking. What’s the worst that could happen? A worker will come over and tell him to leave? Eh, so what?—so he quietly lowers his shoes and sets them down, and without preamble climbs onto the bed. It’s bouncy and Louis’ sleepy form instantly lets his cheeks stretch with a sated beam as he shimmies under the covers and lies down. The duvet itself is so generously big and puffy that it buries Louis beneath it completely, the top of his head only just peaking out for passing eyes.

The shuffled playlist is still on inside his earbuds and Louis lets his eyes flutter a little as the soft, husky croon of Arcade Fire starts playing in his ears.

**

It’s been a while Louis gathers, has no idea how long he’s been in dozing in this bed, jolted awake to the erratic strumming of the Arctic Monkey’s, but he’s now starkly aware of _another_ _person_ inside the bedroom display.

Shit.

Louis freezes, cheeks instantly heating up. He’s sweating, because _look at him_. He’s bloody fallen asleep in a bed in IKEA of all places.

The person, man, Louis thinks—as he slinks further down the bed as silently as he can—quietly roams around the dim, purple bedroom, with what appears to be a sketchbook in his ringed hands.

His rather _large_ hands, ahem, his chocolate brown hair pulled up into a messy bun, a cluster of strands escaping the ends and the sides, his broad but at the same time slender upper body draped in a chequered beige and black, loose-fitting jumper, feet clad in brown suede boots, bookended by a pair of lovely slim, long legs. He looks like the artsy, pensive type. Probably attends some Art School or pretentious, expensive university. He's extremely pretty though, he can tell, despite Louis not being able to get a good look at his face from this angle, the duvet covering his head up to his nose.

Louis’ eyes are really the only part of him properly visible as he watches, slightly engrossed with the man as he looks around, scribbling notes or measurements, Louis guesses, down into his sketchbook, lips resting in a kissy pout as he concentrates. He’s actually sort of fascinating, Louis' eyes glued to his delicate, unhurried movements.                                                                                                                                                                                                             

It takes another few, painstaking minutes before the Artsy boy finally notices his presence as he sits down on the bed, causing the mattress to dip a bit. He hums a low tune Louis doesn't recognise, twiddling a pencil in his hand, the sketchbook resting against his stomach, and lets himself fall back onto the bed, yelping loudly when his back comes into contact with Louis’ private region.

“Shit!” he squawks, tumbling backwards on his heels, almost losing his balance and tripping over the rug.

Louis flinches in embarrassment before he’s up and swiftly scrambling out and off of the bed, standing up in time to see Artsy Boy's comical, bewildered expression on his quite frankly  _beautiful_  face.

Louis fish mouths at the stunning human before him, brain immediately launching into mentally writing dozens of heartfelt sonnets about this boy’s mere beauty and exquisiteness, and shit, his eyes are  _green_. Emerald green, framed by black rimmed glasses that are perched delicately on his nose, his actually adorable nose, and the boy in question, (because yeah, he’s not quite a man, but rather a boy, a lovely, youthful looking boy, not too much younger than himself probably) staring back at him with wide-eyed, startled curiosity, brows slightly pinched. 

“Oh, my God,” Louis says, clapping a hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry! I must have dozed off,” Louis insists, apologetic, face hot.

Artsy Boy gapes at him, silent for an excruciating length of time. Louis wants the ground to swallow him whole. "Do you normally take naps in Home and Furnishing Stores?" the boy says finally, slowly, a deep drawl of a voice that sends shivers down Louis’ spine, caressing it like silk.

"No, don’t be daft. I only take naps in IKEAs," Louis quips. "Comfier beds, aren’t they?"

Artsy Boy slightly pokes his tongue out between almost crimson lips, (Louis’ definitely penning a poem about this wondrous pair of lips later) before pressing them together in an amused smile.

Louis finds himself smiling back easily, the initial embarrassment having worn off already, his eyes momentarily falling to the floor where the boy has dropped his sketchbook and pencil during that ridiculous moment. Louis bends down and picks them up, offering them back to Artsy Boy, biting his lip.

He takes them gratefully. “Thank," he nods. "Wasn’t expecting lifelike models to be advertising the beds, I’ve gotta say.” He smirks, gently lifts a long, ringed finger to push his glasses further back onto his nose.

Louis' mouth quirks. “And I get paid pittance too,” Louis says, feigning offense, hands on his hips. “It’s a tough break but somebody’s got to do it.”

Flickers of amusement and delight colour Artsy Boy’s creamy face as he hugs his sketchbook, pencil tucked into the bind, before he too glances down and his brows furrow momentarily. “Where are your shoes?” he says, stuttering out a laugh.

“Eh, who needs shoes?" Louis waves a hand. "They just weigh you down.”

Artsy Boy smiles brilliantly. “Nice socks, by the way. Polka dots. Like it.”

“Thanks. I knit them myself.”

“Really?”

“No,” Louis laughs.

Artsy Boy laughs too, bright and animatedly. Jesus Christ, he could cure diseases with this laugh, and this _smile_. Louis’ knees very nearly buckle under this boy’s endearing spell. “You’re an odd one, aren’t you?”

Louis scoffs light-heartedly. “Says you. Quite the artsy type, I see you are.” Louis says, gesturing his attire. The boy looks down at himself, chin dipping.

He meets Louis’ gaze, affronted. “Excuse me? Is that another way of calling me ‘pretentious’?” Then he smiles again, wide and forthright, absolute craters of dimples appearing on both of his pale cheeks. God, he’s  _lovely_.

“Well, if the boot fits,” Louis teases, cocking a hip.

Harry’s mouth falls open dramatically. “Hey,” he drawls out. “That’s not very fair. We’ve only just met!”

Louis shrugs, cheeky. “S’what I see.”

Harry makes an amused sound. “I guess I am a bit, yeah,” he says, giving a non-committal shrug, unaffected, dreamy green eyes boring into Louis’ very soul. 

Louis grins. “It’s a nice look though. Very nice ensemble,” he gestures up and down with his hand, “Quirky. I like it. Suits you.”

The boy smiles, eyes practically glowing. “Thank you.” He waits a couple of beats, swaying slightly on the spot, still embracing his sketchbook tightly like an anchor. “I’m Harry,” he supplies, actually holding out a hand. 

Louis takes it instantly, charmed, pleasantly tingling when their skin touches. “I’m Louis. Good to meet you, Harry,” Louis beams.

Who knew IKEA attracted such lovely, whimsical boys? 

“Good to meet you too, Louis,” Harry beams back, a soft coral blush dusting his cheeks, teeth briefly biting his bottom lip before he briefly hides his face in his shoulder, turning back to face him with intrigued eyes, gaze darting over what seems like every contour and crease of Louis’ face, seemingly absorbing his features and entire appearance before green eyes fall back to Louis’.

There’s no words spoken for the next few seconds, so Louis slips back into his Vans, crouching down to tie them back up.

When he looks up at Harry, he’s already staring down at him, apparently in no rush to get moving and resume his IKEA shopping or browsing or... sketching, perhaps?

“Well,” Louis starts, “I better um,” he tilts his head to the right, signalling his exit, “get going. This place closes soon, so if I’m to grab a couple dozen of those ninety pence packs of napkins, I better get a move on,” he jokes, lifting his eyebrows, feigning bother.

Harry watches him, seems to be internally struggling with something, worrying his bottom lip, which is practically blood crimson now as he stares at Louis musingly.

"Oh, okay. Yeah, yeah. Me too,” he says hurriedly, biting down another smile and turning to leave the bedroom’s display. Then he stops, and slowly turns around, standing with his feet poised inwards. He looks adorable, a tad innocent and perhaps a lot shy. 

“Um, actually. Do you want to, um..." Harry begins, unsure, cheeks flushing another gorgeous shade of warm pink. "Walk with me? I'm not planning on going home just yet. We could wander around together, maybe? If you want," Harry shrugs timidly. "I don't know."

"Yeah, okay. Yeah, let's do that," Louis agrees instantly, nodding his head embarrassingly eagerly, suddenly feeling more awake than he has all day long.

Harry's answering smile is enough reason to let Louis know he's made the right choice. Harry moves his glasses and sits them atop his head like a headband. He's even more gorgeous without them. Wowza.

"Right, shall we?" Louis says, smiling, shoes back on and earbuds dangling around his neck as he moves to stand next to Harry.

"We shall," Harry nods, lips quirked as he studies Louis' eyes unabashedly.  

Louis' day just got a whole lot brighter. 

“So, what do you do, then, Harry?” Louis asks, eyebrows quirked in a knowing glance. Harry smiles on a light eye roll, itching a spot by his nose, the gold nail polish painted on Harry’s short, neat nails glimmering in the artificial light of the store. Louis smiles to himself, also noting the dark smudges of ink or some sort of acrylic paint coated on the insides of his palms. Colour Louis already pleasantly endeared.

“You were right," he smiles. "I attend an Art School not far from here. Thought about Manchester University at one point, but they didn’t have quite the course requirements I was looking for. I can focus properly on the art I want to make where I am now, so it's good."

“What exactly do you paint? Or draw? Or are you a man of many talents?” Louis grins.

“All of the above,” Harry’s face breaks into a lopsided smirk. “No, um. I mean, I use most materials. Depends on what I’m drawing, or what my project entails. I like charcoal and chalk for landscapes, mostly pencils for portraits. Sometimes I don’t draw or paint at all and I’ll just take photos. I’m very versatile, you could say,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows ridiculously. Louis laughs, stopping at the scented candle section and picks up a couple of the vanilla.

“Want a basket?” Harry asks, helpfully picking up a disregarded red bag that looks more like a tunnel slide.

“Oh, thank you, Harry,” Louis sings, eyes never leaving the boy as he carefully drops the candles inside.

“What did you actually come here to buy anyway?” Harry asks, as he brings a cinnamon scented red candle to his nose, wrinkling it when he sniffs a bit too forcefully.

“Uh, I came here for a bed frame and a mattress. Mostly the mattress though.” Louis ducks his chin, turning his mouth into shoulder, not quite sure what to do with the contagiously contented giggles bubbling up in his chest, feebly attempting to stop the smile that's threatening to surface and crack open his face, ready to pour out the unadulterated joy and surprising fondness from his pours, and seep out from his cells.

“Oh,” Harry smiles, giggling slightly as he puts the candle back down without looking. The whole mountain of candles on display could come crashing down on top of them and Louis would still have his eyes firmly stuck to Harry’s soft green gaze, pleased and calm. “And how did that work out for you? Find what you were looking for?” he says conversationally as his eyes bury into Louis, that wonderful mouth curving playfully.  

Louis gives Harry a pressed-lip smile. "Yeah, I'm starting to think so," he says softly.

Harry's smile falters, but only to turn away to suppress a wide, elated grin, maybe a little embarrassed as he palms the back of his neck, tiny, quiet chuckles escaping his lips. God, he's cute. So lovely. Louis tilts his head to watch him, entranced.  

"Good answer," Harry says on a breathy laugh, swaying slightly, hands gripping his sketchbook tighter, fingers splayed on the black leather front.

They stroll for a minute of two in comfortable, thrumming silence, eyes scanning the aisles sightlessly and swapping shy upturns of their mouths when Harry looks back over properly. "So, tell me a tidbit about yourself, Louis."

"A tidbit, eh?" Louis smirks.

"Yeah," Harry nods, beaming.

"Well, I'm a barista by day, unfortunately," Louis sighs. "I know, how original." Harry chuckles airily, clutching his sketchbook to his chest, teeth indented into his plump bottom lip. "But I like to think of myself as a writer by night, or throughout the day whenever I get a minute, really. I just jot down random words mostly. Things I hear, quotes I like, a lyric that comes on the radio while I'm working, or sometimes I'll hum some of my own. I just love words in general. Spoken or written. Poetry is my main thing though, I think."

"Poetry?" Harry says, voice tinged with surprise. Louis gets that a lot. "I wouldn't have said that about you. Novels, maybe. Songwriter? Definitely. Poems weren't on the list for some reason. But then I don't really know you," he smiles. "Not yet anyway." Another pressed smile, eyes a'glint. "That's an interesting tidbit about you, Louis."

"I'm glad you think so, Artsy Boy," Louis practically skips ahead, turning around briefly to make sure Harry is following. He grins as Harry scuttles forwards, heels clinking against the floor to slide back into step with Louis.

They walk with each other, laughing easily like they're lifelong friends and giving each other several more tidbits about their lives until they get to the children's section and of course, Louis can't resist immediately climbing onto one of the kids' bunk beds as Harry beams up at him, a lopsided smile utterly enthralled with Louis’ ability to fit atop the bunk, ankles dangling off the edge but only just.

"Oh, no, what are you doing up here?" Harry laughs.

"Going to bed," Louis mutters, covering a yawn as he lays on his side, watching Harry with a pleased smile on his face.

“You’re so small,” Harry coos, giggling as he leans his arms atop the bunk. "And fluffy. Like a baby hedgehog." Harry continues to laugh as he himself attempts to climb the tiny ladder with those elongated limbs of his. Fat chance. He'll break the bleeding thing. Silly, lovely boy.

“I like you, but shut up, mate," Louis glares. "I'll have you know I'm a tough, streetwise Northerner who also cries during kitten ads and reads Keats religiously."

Harry giggles. "You're versatile too! I like that as well." Then a pause, as he his hands grip back onto the side of the pink painted bunk, netted cerise curtains draped from the top to the bottom. "Wait. You like me?” Harry blinks, eyes fond, face fond, his entire being just looking at Louis, watching him adoringly. Louis feels hot, his cheeks flush. His back is sweaty. Hot. Too hot. Does this place have air con?

“Well, yeah. You’re nice, aren't you?” he says, flustered, and ducks his head, fighting the urge to giggle.

“You’re nice too. Really nice. And pretty," Harry informs him, ruffling his hair gently with a ringed hand, eyes dazzling with infatuation it seems. Louis freezes under his touch. Holy shit. What is happening. 

Louis rolls his eyes as Harry gets closer. “Alright, calm down. I’m not ready for marriage yet, Harry. I hope you can respect that.”

Harry hums, removing his hand from Louis' hair. No, come back, nice, smooth hand. Play with the hair all you want. “I guess I’ll have to settle for taking you out on a date instead?” Harry suggests hopefully, face bright and a little bit mischievous. 

"Perhaps you will," Louis sings.

"Perhaps I might," Harry smirks.

"Well, good."

"Wonderful."

"Spiffing."

"Splendid."

"Marvelous."

"Jolly good stuff," Harry beams proudly, hands on his hips.

"Shut up, you loon," Louis laughs. "Just gimme a second, I'll go and fetch you a thesaurus, shall I?" Harry laughs harder, tipping his head forwards for some reason, scrunching his nose up weirdly as he struggles not to guffaw at the top of his lungs probably.

It wasn't even funny.

Louis' ego has inflated to maximum size, head lying on a hypothetical little girl's feathered pillow as he stares warmly at Harry, his glasses almost falling off of his pretty head, and so Louis sits up and snatches them off, perching them atop his own nose. They're a tad big for him but he feels Harry's gaze quieten on him, captivated. It feels very nice, very nice indeed to have such a lovely boy's attention solely bestowed upon Louis. At this rate, Louis is considering keeping him. Already. And it feels nice. Calming, almost? Did he mention it feels nice? Bland word for a writer, he knows, but somehow it describes Harry in the most wonderfully unique, special way. Serene, comfortable, dreamy. Whimsical. All these words come under 'nice'. Which is what Harry certainly is. Precious, even.

Louis might be a little smitten. A smitten kitten. Or is that Harry? See, Louis' ego is being stroked beyond perfection right about now.

"I think they suit you, Louis," Harry tells him quietly, voice like smooth melted chocolate. 

"Make me seem more sophisticated, do they? Or a bit pretentious. Such as like their owner?" he smirks, and Harry swats at him, pouting as Louis kneels on the bed and looming over the side into Harry's space.

Any further and he'll topple off the top, and Harry will have to catch him.

"You're cheeky," Harry informs him. Louis tips right over the edge, Harry scrambling over himself to stop Louis from crashing head first into the floor and grips at his middle, heaving him up so that Louis' legs are suddenly hugging Harry's waist, his long arms instantly winding around Louis' back, then resting underneath his thighs as he perches Louis around his middle with ease.

"Oh, my hero! My prince! You saved me," Louis wails, throwing his head back as he clutches Harry closer, arms pressing into Harry's neck, as Harry's wide, elated eyes stare unblinking at Louis' silly spectacle, "me, a princess from falling out of her tower to her untimely death," Louis says dramatically, putting on a ridiculous voice, writhing about in Harry's arms. He's no idea what's come over him or why he's acting like such a bloody nutter, but alas Harry is looking at him like he hung the moon and so Louis is hard pressed to stop being such an idiot if Harry continues to beam at Louis in this way.

He's wide awake now.

"You're crazy," Harry laughs hysterically, eyes widening still, absolutely delighted. "I love it," he murmurs as he slides his own glasses further back onto Louis' nose.

They continue to wander through every section, and Louis' hand casually slips into Harry's slightly larger one, Harry instantly entwining their fingers as they trot around the increasingly empty store, Harry squeezes his hand tighter, while they run around like overexcited children on too much sugar, picking up random items and laughing like idiots, poking each other with kitchen utensils, posing with silly faces in bathroom mirrors, and squealing over the stuffed animals in the kids section as Louis pretends to make a large badger kiss Harry's cheeks, relentless with it until Harry is rolling around on the floor, red faced and heaving and breathless from laughing too hard. Of course, it only spurs Louis on more, ecstatic and enchanted and completely, utterly taken with this boy. Louis holds Harry's sketchbook for him at one point, and then Harry ends up holding both Louis' basket and him at times as he pulls and tugs at Louis, stifling his hand over Louis' mouth when he gets too rowdy and carried away, and to stop him climbing into any more tiny princess beds lest he break them and they have to do a speedy runner because neither can afford to pay for any damage they create.

They get to the kitchen section eventually and Louis unthinkingly plonks himself down on a chair in a flashy, minimal set up, hears Harry barreling over to join him who immediately pretends to cook them breakfast.

"Would you like eggs, my love?" Harry beams, banging and moving around the utensils and pans atop the spotless grill.

"Oh, that would be wonderful, darling," Louis sings exaggeratedly. "Would you also be a dear and make me a cup of tea, please?" Louis says pretending to read the paper.

"Of course, dear," Harry coos, a hand on his hip as he pretends to flip an invisible pancake. 

Louis grins.

They fall into giggles as Harry tugs Louis back up by the hand as they race through the bedding, the rugs, the lights and the drawer and cabinets sections towards the storing units at the end before they realise it’s approaching very near to closing time.

“Oh, we should probably get going. Or I should, or you know, um, yeah,” Harry smiles sheepishly, touching the back of his neck, still holding Louis' basket with his candles, Vans and Harry's sketchbook.

"Oh, yeah," Louis smiles, if a little half-heartedly, not ready to leave just yet. They pay for Louis' candles and he hands Harry back his sketchbook. "How about you give me your number then?" he smirks, blinking coquettishly.

“No, that’s too easy,” Harry half-grins, half-stares with lidded eyes. “How about we play a game instead?”

“A game?” Louis says, his own lips quirking in the corners as he studies the boy in front of him, cool and collected and decidedly getting progressively more sleepy. He’s just all around lovely, isn’t he? With those chocolate infused tresses he calls hair, and his warm knit jumper, and his pink tinted cheeks and his pretty painted nails, and sweeter than a buttercream cupcake. “What kind of game’s that then?”

“Well, we both get in opposite lifts for the exit at the same time. And press a floor number. If we pick the same one and end up on the same floor, well, then we’re meant to see each other again,” Harry explains happily.

"Harry," Louis laughs.

"I'm serious," Harry pouts.

Louis stares with a furrowed brow. “Really?” he says dubiously. “And then you’ll give me your number?” he smiles, hopeful.

Harry nods, beaming.

“But what if we pick a different floor though?”

Harry’s smile falters, evening out into something assured and calm. “We won’t.”

“You sound awfully sure about that.”

“That’s because I am.”

Louis laughs, shaking his head. “You’re funny.”

“Thanks,” Harry replies, smiling. “I’m planning on becoming a comedian one day. I reckon I have a natural flare for it,” he says, flicking his hair delicately, a tiny smirk pulling the corner of his lips.

“Oh, now you’ve said that I think you probably tell the worst jokes,” Louis says.

“You’ll just have to make sure you pick the right floor to find out then, won’t you?”

Louis sighs, shaking his head, resigned to the fact the only way he’s going to see Harry again is if he plays along with his little quirky game. He looks at him wryly before he pads over to the lift’s doors and presses the button on the side, waiting. Harry does the same by his lift, practically bouncing on the spot, his glasses hooked into the collar of his flowy jumper.

“Just out of interest, what’s your current favourite order at Starbucks?” Louis asks.

Harry glances sideways at him, standing on his tiptoes, hugging his sketchbook. It’s a bulky thing that Louis would love to flick through one day. All the more motivation to indulge this whimsical boy, Louis supposes.

"Currently?" Harry ponders, thumbing his lip. Louis tracks the motion. "Probably the honey blossom macchiato?"

"Oh, good choice. We're definitely perfect for each other then," he smirks. Harry beams. “Hang on. You snagged this off of that film, didn’t you?”

“Serendipity, yeah,” Harry nods, pleased.

“You know this isn’t foolproof, then? They picked the wrong floors, didn’t they? Or they missed each other or something. And then spent years trying to find each other, getting on with their lives with the wrong people.” Louis frowns.

Harry frowns briefly too, pondering the possibility they’ll choose differently, before he shakes it off and gets inside the lift. "Alright, well, if something happens between now and when the lift gets to our floors, meet me in the park by Crescent Road. Do you know it?"

"Yeah, I do..."

"And bring me my favourite flower," Harry beams.

"Eh?" Louis blinks. His favourite flower? How random, and odd, and... wonderful. Louis' so smitten. Louis vaguely remembers Harry mentioning how much he loves flowers and how many hundreds of pictures he's taken of them, as well as how he sketches them regularly. It's between a white rose and pink carnation, he thinks. 

“See you on the other side, Louis,” he smiles again.

“Alright, Harry,” Louis grins to himself.

And then Harry’s holding his door open, and shouting, “Styles!”

“What?” Louis calls, laughter in his voice.

“My full name is Harry Styles,” is all Louis hears before the doors shut.

When Louis' doors close too, Louis presses for the second floor, because number two seems like a nice number, and when he exits, sits on the dusty, sawdust speckled ground, crossed-legged and waits for Harry.

**

It's been twenty minutes now and Harry still hasn't arrived. Well, shit. Thank god Harry told him a meeting place or Louis would very likely start ugly crying about now.

So Louis leaves the building, worried closing time has already been and gone. It's ten on the dot and Louis hurries out and gets in his car, stopping at a petrol garage with an M&S inside. There's plenty of bundles of flowers wrapped up on display but no white roses, obviously, (seeing as it's hardly a florist, is it?) which Louis is 99.9% sure Harry mentioned were his favourites. Honestly, where did Harry expect Louis to find white roses this time of night. Funny, odd boy. So instead, Louis buys something else he thinks Harry might appreciate and heads to the park on Crescent Road, hoping Harry is already there waiting for him. 

But if he's not...

No, shush, Tomlinson. Harry will be there.

**

Louis finds a bench by a tall oak tree and sits with his little present for Harry clutched between his palms.

He waits, and waits, and waits a bit more.

Until finally, Louis, with slightly glassy eyes and a very heavy, withered heart stands up, accepting Harry's not coming and promising himself he'll come back everyday in the hope he might see Harry again, when he suddenly hears a frantic voice moving closer.

"I'm sorry! Wait! Louis!" 

Louis swirls around. "Harry?"

"Hey angel," Harry grins, flushed and panting as he jogs up to him.

"Oh, you're so embarrassing," Louis laughs. He pauses. "I thought you'd stood me up," he says quietly, pigeon toed and unsure.

"No! I'd never. I got stuck in the lift for twenty minutes," he says shaking his head. "I couldn't believe it. I'm sorry, Louis. My game backfired drastically," he says, apologetic and pinkening. "It was stupid."

"Nah, it was a cute idea. And it's okay. You're here now, aren't you?" Louis beams, voice husky and fond, brushing a hand over Harry's chest. Harry watches him. "What floor did you pick anyway?" 

"Doesn't matter," Harry insists. "I want to see you again. I mean, if that's okay?" Harry asks, hesitant.

"Of course it's bloody okay," he laughs. "And I think we should say the floor we chose out loud at the same time."

Harry smiles, dimpling. "Okay," he agrees happily. "On three?"

Louis nods. "One..."

"Two!" they both yell at once.

They fall into giggles. "Yay!" Harry claps enthusiastically. Oh my God, he's so precious. Louis can't cope.

"Why'd you pick that one?" Louis asks, voice soft.

"Because everything's better with two, right?"

"Oh, god," Louis beams. "Well, I got you a present. Not the flower, mind, which I know is a white rose," he says, watching as Harry's face shows he's impressed. "Because where on earth was I meant to find a florists' at this time of night," he says on a mild eye roll.

"Oh, yeah," Harry says, as if he hadn't thought of that.

"Anyway, here," Louis says, placing it carefully in Harry's open palm that he takes and holds out, facing upwards, feeling Harry's dopey smile on him as they touch.

Harry pinches his eyebrows together as he stares at the object in his hand.

“Teal nail polish,” Louis supplies, pointing to Harry’s gold painted nails with his eyes.

Harry glances back up at him, green eyes glassy. "Louis, that's..."

“You know, to remember the colour of my beautiful eyes by, obviously,” he smirks. He knows it’s unbelievably cheesy but it’s absolutely worth it for the shrill, awed giggle Harry produces. Louis thinks Harry might just be the new adventure he was looking for. “Closest one I could find anyway,” Louis laughs, utterly thrilled with Harry’s reaction, who is currently bending on his knees, making the most delightful face, scrunching his nose and running a hand over his bun which is practically falling part now, curly strand falling into his bright eyes, coy and glowing under the stars.

Louis might be in love, actually. 

Harry's face almost splits in two. “I think they're more of a light cerulean, maybe? With a minty green outlining the edges. I need to sketch you one day, or maybe I’ll use watercolours. Haven’t in a while.”

“I’d be honoured to be one of your French boys, Harry.”

Harry grins so hard it looks like it probably hurts. “You’re going to pose naked for me, are you?” he says lowly, making Louis feel _things_. Specific, very nice things.

Louis stares at him, feigning coyness, shrugging as he flicks his fringe. “I don’t get naked on the first date, Harry.”

“Are we on a date?” Harry’s eyes widen, face smoothing into a fond smile as he puts the nail polish in his pocket and holds out his arms for Louis as he sits down on the grass, back against the tree.

“I reckon so,” he says, following Harry's lead and laying out on the dewy grass, head cushioned by Harry’s lap, whose hands instantly card though his hair. Louis shivers, biting down an ecstatic smile.

“When am I allowed to paint you then?” Harry wonders aloud, beaming down at him.

“Perhaps it can be our second date? I’ll be your live subject, love.”

“Oh my God! I’m so excited right now!” Harry bellows to the sky, startling Louis so much he screams with him, eyes widening incredibly.

“You’re mad!” Louis cackles. 

Harry giggles. “Yeah." He shrugs. "I am," he says proudly. "Be mad with me?”

“Anytime,” Louis murmurs, leaning up to encircle Harry’s neck with his hands, tugging him down gently. Harry follows easily, minty warm breath caressing Louis’ cold, flushed cheeks, and they kiss, lazy slides of their lips moving against each other seamlessly. Harry deepens it after a few moments, stealing the air from Louis’ lungs and replacing it by breathing stardust and moonbeams and honey blossom sweetness into Louis’ innards instead, bottling his warmth and happiness and magic inside Louis’ spaces and corners, marking himself there.

Their kisses start to slow down and Harry eventually pulls away, dots a single, chaste kiss on Louis’ nose and nuzzles into his cheek, Louis still curled in Harry’s lovely, warm lap.

Harry sighs happily. “Oh, what’s your surname? You didn’t tell me,” he rumbles sleepily, eyes half-lidded. Louis could bottle up the sound of his voice and keep it tucked with him always.

“Tomlinson.”

There's a silent beat.

“Louis Tomlinson, we’re going to have many adventures together, I can tell these things, you know.”

“I think you’re right,” Louis smiles up at him, their hands intertwined.

_Fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr i've barely used is curlsandlashes :)


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